88.8 MHz – Philosophy United Radio
Your favorite broadcast from the belly of the beast…
> Murphy: January 1st, 2000. Age: 5. The sun rises over a mass grave made of light. He is not breathing. Yet.
Ainz-sama: Transmission 1 – "To-Begin." The dead prayed for justice. Only one was heard.
Guest Voices
Nietzsche: "He died like a stray. And awoke like a god."
Ravana: "Ten heads bowed the day the child stood up."
Edward Snowden: "Privacy is gone. But so are the witnesses."
The Prophet of Dust: "He did not scream. That's how we knew it was real."
---
The flies came first. Always do.
Banana peels curled black beneath a rust-stained sun, pulp drying into leather across concrete. The air trembled with heat—50°C, no shade, no pause, no second chance.
He had no stall. Just a basket. And a white cloth over his head. It wasn't white anymore.
His body failed quietly. Not like in the movies. No music. Just a slow kneeling, knees cracking, hands still holding a few rupees. The sugar in his blood was mud. He hadn't eaten. Again.
His father's voice had been the last: "Saala haramkhor. Dhop mein kama, warna dafa ho ja."
The man had laughed while lighting a cigarette. His hands smelled like paan and desperation.
A small crowd gathered. No one touched him. Some stared. Some just kept walking.
And then Arslan said it. Mouth dry. Teeth chattering despite the heat.
"God… if I had a second chance... I'd show You... how much better I could've been."
A pause. One blink.
"I'd be Superman."
The light went out.
---
But there was no tunnel. No angels. No rest.
Instead—breath.
Like the body remembered something the soul didn't.
And then—sight.
He opened his eyes.
Mud walls.
A wooden ceiling laced with cobwebs.
A courtyard of cracked soil.
Men sleeping on charpais. His father's back turned. His mother's feet bare and gray.
He was on the floor. No pillow. Just dirt.
His stomach twisted. Not from hunger. From knowledge. He remembered.
The heat.
The debt.
The noise.
The insults.
The humiliation of being less than a goat in a house full of people who called him son.
His lungs locked. His eyes burned. His body—alien.
And then… silence.
The kind of silence that precedes earthquakes.
His skin, too new to contain him. His cells didn't recognize the threat, but his soul did.
The body panicked. The universe listened.
In a single pulse, invisible and divine, his very breath screamed inward.
And the world ended.
---
3 kilometers.
Flat.
Perfect.
Not scorched.
Not broken.
Just—gone.
Brick, bone, breath, blood, memory, name—dissolved.
When the sun rose over Uch Sharif, it found a desert of ashless nothing.
At the center: a boy.
Naked. Silent. Curled like a fetus.
He was found by disaster relief workers who vomited at the stillness.
The military arrived. Then the media. Then the molvies.
He woke at 10:17 AM, January 1st.
A policeman leaned in. "Beta... tumhara naam kya hai? Yeh sab kaise hua?"
A soldier clicked a pen.
Arslan blinked. His voice was calm. Soft.
The only sentence he spoke that day:
"Malik Riyaz... mera nana hai."
---
Nietzsche: "You ask for signs. And then ignore the explosions."